A/N: Had a bit too much to drink and this is the result. Thank god for spell checks. No beta.
-o-o-o-
He sits on his couch simply staring out into nothing. The alcohol running through his veins is beginning to take over his will and thoughts, making his mind float. Thinking back to the events of the past and the present sends his head into painful memory flashes. He closes his eyes and rests his face in his hands, wondering why – why everything is happening to him. Why him? Why not someone else? Why is he the one to bear the burdens of the world on his shoulders? The images are so vivid, so clear. He could swear it was happening all over again. The pain. The humiliation. The fear. The helplessness. The anger.
Leaning back into the comfort of the couch, he desperately tries to free himself of the horror going on behind his eyelids, but fails miserably. The images still haunt him. The pain is still there. Drinking won't make them go away, he knows that. He needs more.
The needle is in the box, just as it always is. He hasn't touched it for months now, but lately it's been eating him up. The need. The want. The hunger. The addiction. He knows he needs it to forget, to be free if only for a few moments.
The feeling is always the same. All of the pain simply floats away, and his mind goes blank. There will be no pain and no horror to haunt him anymore, at least not tonight. At least not for a few hours.
Is it worth it? Is it worth to lose such a struggle? He fought for so long, tried so very hard, and actually prevailed. He's strong. He can make it without the needle. At least that's what he's telling himself.
But the images… They refuse to go away. He hears himself screaming inside his head, although he knows he never screamed. Not once. He could have screamed. He could have stopped it if he hadn't been so weak. Weak. He's weak. He's always been weak. He always was and always will be.
On shaking legs he walks towards the box on the shelf, hearing his mind screaming NO. But he ignores the screams and reaches for the brown wooden box, pulling it from the shelf and sinks to the floor.
Tightening the tourniquet around his arm, tears fall from his eyes as he realizes that he will never really be free. Not from the memories and not from the addiction. He can refuse it all he wants, but eventually, he will fall. And there will be no one there to catch him before he hits the ground.
Filling the needle with the clear liquid, he bites his lip to keep his fingers from shaking. He needs all of it. There's only one dose in there, and he needs it badly. Tomorrow he will go back to fighting, but right now… Right now he's too weak to fight it.
The sting as the needle pierces his skin makes him wince slightly, but the amazing, sweet release following turns the wince into a sigh and a moan of pleasure. Just in time for him to loosen the tourniquet, the fix reaches his system.
His eyes roll back into his head as he slowly lies down on the wooden flooring. All he can hear is a slight whooshing sound in his ears, and all he can feel is freedom. He is free. His mind is empty and his body is numb. He doesn't know if he's breathing or not. He's not even aware if he's still alive or not.
At least there is no pain.
There is no hunger.
There is nothing.
Just another junkie on the floor, enjoying his latest fix.
Tomorrow he will go back to fighting.